


Four Arrests and a Wedding

by Nepthys



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-25
Updated: 2009-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepthys/pseuds/Nepthys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's forthcoming nuptials forms the background to four very different cases...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Arrests and a Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draycevixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/gifts).



> Written for the **LOM Ficathon 2009**. The prompts were: "Sam/Gene, Ray's wedding, anything that can go wrong will go wrong".

***

_1\. Reading between the lines_

Gene sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel of the mobile library van. What a bloody stupid way to spend the day: if this tip-off didn't turn up trumps then heads would roll. He tried to rein in his impatience, alternately watching through the rear-view mirror and scanning the street in front of them, half-listening to Sam's patter with the punters.

"Anything I can interest you with today, madam?"

"Do you have anything by Jackie Collins? I like something a bit racy, me."

Gene glanced in the mirror to see a blonde woman who was old enough to know better coyly batting her eyelashes at Sam. Gene snorted to himself.

They'd had requests for "Lady Chatterley's Lover" and "The Joy of Sex" already. Not that they could lend either of them out: according to the index card the former had been missing, presumed stolen, for the best part of three years, and the latter was on the front seat for Gene's perusal to alleviate the boredom of the day. Not that it had what he was _really_ interested in looking at... Sometimes Gene worried that he might be headed for trouble.

"We seem to be all out, madam," Sam was saying, "We've had a bit of a rush on Jackie Collins today. Perhaps a nice Catherine Cookson?"

"Oh, I don't know: is there much _action_ in it?"

Gene supposed that terrorising mobile librarians must be the regular Tuesday afternoon entertainment for the housewives of suburbia. Shocking, really. Nice middle-class area like this – he wondered if they frisked the postman and pestered the milkman for extra cream. He wondered if Vera had done the same before she finally upped and offed with that dentist bloke...

Not that Gene blamed her, really. They hadn't had much of a married life in recent years, what with him spending most of his time at work or down the pub.

Or with Sam.

He peered at the back of Tyler's head, noticing the way his neck had flushed pink – so he wasn't oblivious to the woman's overtures, then, even though he was keeping an admirably level tone to his voice.

Funny, really, because Tyler could be remarkably thick regarding some things. Gene had wondered at first if Sam's ignorance was selective: deliberately overlooking things he didn't want to see. But finally he decided that it was just Sam. Always looking for a more complicated answer and never spotting the thing staring him in the face: that was Sam.

Take Cartwright, for instance. She'd come as close to throwing herself at him as nice young women like her did - but to no avail. That was what had got Gene to wondering.

Wondering if Tyler was the marrying sort at all.

Mind you, people could surprise you. Ray getting engaged after just two months of going out with that Beryl bird – that had been a turn-up for the books.

"Well, as you've recommended it, young man, I'll give it a try!"

The blonde seemed reluctant to get out of the van, but finally went with a simpering wave. Gene huffed. They'd been at this all afternoon with not so much as a nibble so far – although Sam had had plenty of offers - and if this turned out to be a hoax he was going to personally track down the mysterious caller and pin his stupid 'Librarian' badge to his forehead for wasting police time.

He was just toying with the idea of re-reading the bits on sex via the...well, the _other_ way (not that those sections seemed very helpful), when he heard it.

"Erm, do you have Dante's "Divine Comedy"?" a quiet male voice asked, nervously.

Gene sat up straighter in his seat, tensing for action. He craned to see the speaker in the mirror, but his view was blocked by Sam's shoulder.

"Certainly, sir," Sam was saying. "Let me see...ah, here we go. If you could just bring your library card over here..."

Sam moved to one side, and Gene caught sight of the man at the exact same time as the man caught sight of him. Malcolm Phipps. His eyes widened in recognition, and then he turned on his heel and sprinted off down the road, the book still grasped in his hand. Sam took off after him, leaving a couple of bemused ladies clutching books by the roadside in his wake.

Gene had a fleeting moment to appreciate Tyler's rear-view – and what a rear-view it was - as he revved the van's engine into life and then screeched away from the curb. He floored the accelerator, cursing the lack of horse-power under the bonnet as the van responded sluggishly, and barrelled down the road in the opposite direction to the running men. Spinning the wheel, he took the van into a sharp turn around the corner, books flying from the open rear doors.

If he knew these streets – and he _did_ know these streets – there was a pedestrian cut through the houses which he was willing to bet Phipps would try to take. Gene accelerated again, hitting the horn as a woman pushing a pram nearly stepped out in front of him. He took the next corner at speed, the van practically on two wheels — the cut should bring them out just about— ah yes!

He executed a hand-brake turn, the stench of burning rubber sharp in the air, as Malcolm Phipps ran blindly out of the alley and smack into the side of the van.

Gene jumped out to find Sam, still panting, wrestling Phipps down onto the ground to handcuff him. A small crowd of curious bystanders were gathering. Gene gestured to Phipps.

"Didn't pay his library fine," he growled.

That drew a muttering from the crowd, quietening down only when Sam showed them his warrant card. As he turned and read Phipps his rights, Gene bent to retrieve the fallen book.

"Seems like we've got you bang to rights, Phipps." He flipped the "Divine Comedy" open to show a hollowed-out interior containing a package of white tablets. "And if you don't tell us who you're couriering drugs for, you'll discover that there's a whole tenth level of hell that Mr. Dante neglected to mention!"

Phipps' quivering was gratifying but it was the expression on Sam's face – a genuine, ear-to-ear grin that said everything to do with partnership and friendship, and being able to count on one another, and sometimes, just _sometimes_, being able to take real delight in doing this thankless bloody job – that gave Gene a flush of warming satisfaction.

That was when he knew he was in deep, deep trouble.

 

***

 

_2\. Practicing what you preach._

 

"How do I look?"

"Stop fidgeting!"

"Stop fussing!" Gene, conscious of Sam's closeness and even more conscious of the fact that they were in his office and in plain view, smacked Sam's hands away and his DI stood back with a sigh.

_Bloody oblivious, the daft git._

Gene cleared his throat.

"Well?" he asked, striking what he judged to be a serious pose.

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Can't say you're terribly convincing. Maybe if you put that fag out..."

Gene huffed, stubbing out the offending cigarette. "I've got nowhere to stash my ciggies in this bloody get-up!" he complained, flapped his arms. "How priests wear this all day I'll never know."

"Probably divinely inspired," Sam replied, dryly.

The black cassock hung to Gene's ankles, feeling most peculiar as it draped against his bare legs. He shifted uncomfortably, running a finger under his white clerical collar.

Sam cocked his head to one side. "Maybe a haircut would help..."

"For God's sake – no pun intended – I'm only going to be there so that we can corner Pat O'Hara without him spotting us and doing a runner. It's not like I have to deliver a bloody sermon, or anything!"

"Just as well – I don't think the congregation is ready for DCI Hunt's letters to the Corinthians."

"Why don't you do it, then, smart-arse?"

"Because O'Hara has seen me." Sam huffed out a breath and stepped closer, reaching up to adjust Gene's dog collar.

Gene held his breath just in case he was tempted to sniff him.

Sam stepped back after a moment, and suddenly grinned. "You could hang onto that outfit and marry Ray!" He blinked. "Well, not _marry_ Ray obviously, but I mean, you know, officiate at his wedding."

Gene scowled. "What are you going on about Gladys?" Not waiting for an answer, he turned to peer into the small mirror standing on his desk as he continued. "As it happens, Ray and Beryl are having a registry office do."

"Oh, yeah, that's right. I've got the invitation somewhere. On the seventeenth, isn't it?"

"Mmm."

"He hasn't known her long, has he?"

"Mmm?"

"Well, I mean, it just seems a bit whirlwind. Don't get me wrong: I'm happy for him – for both of them – and she seemed nice when he brought her to the pub that time...It just seems a bit..._quick_. You know."

"Apparently she hasn't got much family to speak of, so they didn't see any sense in waiting or planning a big do."

"Oh. Right. Well, that makes sense."

"Does it? I'm not saying I agree; just that's what Ray reckoned." Gene turned back to face his DI. "Bloody stupid if you ask me."

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. "So..."

Gene sighed. "Look: Ray's a good bloke, and if he really has found the love of his life who will treasure him just as he is, then good for him. But marry in haste – bugger it, marry _at all_ – and repent at leisure. Trust me: it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"So I suppose you won't be tying the knot again?" Sam's casual tone held a wealth of understanding beneath the easy veneer of humour, and Gene was grateful for it – but if only Sam _really_ understood.

"I can honestly say, my little Deputy Dawg, that I have no intentions of embroiling myself with a woman ever again." Gene fixed Sam with what he hoped was a meaningful stare.

Sam took a deep breath. "Well, then," he said, with forced cheer, "you've got the right outfit on. Although..."

He peered down at Gene's legs. "What have you got under there?"

"Surprised you need to ask, man of the world like you Tyler." Gene gave him a salacious wink.

Rolling his eyes in response, Sam reached down and twitched the edge of the cassock, neatly exposing Gene's shins and doubling his heart rate in a single move. _Bloody hell._

"I know my legs are irresistible, Tyler, but I don't think you're meant to do that to a man of the cloth!"

Sam snorted. "You do know you're supposed to wear trousers under this, don't you?"

"Oh, I see." Gene determinedly did _not_ sound crestfallen. "And here I thought you just couldn't resist my manly pins."

That raised a laugh and one of Sam's smug, teasing looks. He leaned in, eyes narrowed, as though speaking confidentially.

"Don't worry, Gene. If I ever have the urge to fondle some manly legs, I'll steer well clear of yours." He gave Gene a comradely pat on the shoulder and walked out, leaving Gene staring open-mouthed after him.

_Bugger_.

 

***

 

_3\. Clowning about._

 

The night air was filled with the acrid smell of smoke and the clamour of people running hither and yon, the odd animal cry adding to the unearthly din. A chimpanzee in a gold brocade waistcoat scampered past, chattering.

Gene flinched as a loud boom reverberated through the air, and the flames engulfing the Big Top briefly flared up afresh as another flammable substance caught alight.

Where was Tyler?

Pausing to catch his breath, Gene swiped a gloved hand across his sweaty brow and it came away smeared with white and red greasepaint. _Oh, for God's sake!_ What a bloody stupid idea _this_ had been. Rephrase that: what a bloody stupid idea of _Tyler's_ this had been. Gene adjusted his stance and Freddy Watkins, a.k.a. 'Ready Steady' Freddy, a.k.a. the latest piece of scum to dirty the sole of Gene's shoe, squirmed in his prone position beneath Gene's foot.

"And as for you, you little gobshite, stay down before I put you down permanently!"

A bit more pressure applied to the small of Freddy's back was enough to drive the point home and Gene was suddenly grateful for the size 22 clown's shoes he was wearing (just lucky he'd been able to ambush Freddy: a chase would not have gone at all well).

Leaning his weight on his captive, Gene craned around, trying to spot Tyler's green-clad form. He'd missed the explanation of exactly what Sam was supposed to be dressed as – a pixie or an elf or some such rot – because he'd been too busy trying not to stare at the way the tights clung to every curve of Sam's legs, curtailed only by the short tunic that skimmed the top of his thighs. Absolutely ridiculous and not, in Gene's opinion, suitable for a role which involved selling popcorn and ice-cream to kiddies – what was the point of giving advice about not accepting sweets from strangers? And honestly, they didn't come much stranger than Sam.

At least the show had ended and most of the public had already left before all this kicked off. The Big Top had been emptying of the final stragglers when Gene and Sam moved in to apprehend Freddy. Gene had seen Sam at the other side of the ring, darting after their quarry just as Freddy had flung one of the fire juggler's torches into the canvas, and Gene had doubled back to cut him off. So, Tyler should have been just behind Freddy – then where the hell was he?

Gene yanked off his red nose and pulled off the stupid orange wig – at least it was better than being dressed up as a bloody pixie, and he never thought he'd find himself having to be grateful for _that_ particular small mercy – what a bloody fiasco it had turned out to be. Sirens could distantly be heard, and people were running about trying to put out the fire and move the stands and the tents. An elephant trumpeted from somewhere nearby and a fortune-teller rushed past, skirts held aloft and veils fluttering.

Where the bleeding hell was Tyler? Probably stopped to rescue a trapeze artist. Or to arrest the bearded lady. Or get eaten by a tiger, given his extraordinary ability to get himself into trouble.

"Tyler!" Gene bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the din.

And there he was, staggering out of the smoke, face smudged with soot and sweat and a smear of what Gene fervently hoped was someone else's blood.

"Where the hell have you been?" Gene yelled.

Sam bent over and coughed heartily before straightening up, although he was still hiccoughing, shaking a little, and after a bewildered moment Gene realised he was laughing.

"What's so bloody funny, you nutcase?"

"I just..." Sam gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "I always used to hate clowns..." He looked at Gene and erupted into laughter again.

_Mad. Possibly certifiable._

Gene stared at him, wondering, not for the first time, just how many custard creams short of a packet Sam Tyler really was. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the fire brigade and the police, and Gene focussed instead on calming Sam down: he already had a reputation for being a bit strange, and Gene didn't want all and sundry seeing Sam dressed as a pixie and laughing so hard he looked like he'd give himself a hernia.

Still, first things first: Freddy. Gene fished around in his pockets for his handcuffs but managed only to make a stream of water squirt from the flower in his buttonhole, which sent Sam off into fresh peals of laughter, tears running down his cheeks. Gene sighed, pulling off his white gloves before trying again. By the time he finally managed to cuff Freddy and haul him to his feet, Sam was regaining control of himself.

"This sort of thing never used to happen, you know," Gene grumbled, gesturing at the scene of chaos around them. "Not until you turned up - you bloody maniac."

Sam, attempting to wipe his face with one of Gene's discarded gloves and managing only to smear greasepaint on his nose, looked up with a grin.

"Yeah, but you love it."

Gene swallowed and looked away, for once lost for a snappy retort. He was saved by the appearance of the plod, and after another comical search of his pockets to produce his warrant card (resulting in a brief incident with his revolving bow tie which threatened to send Sam off again), they escorted Freddy away to a waiting police car.

Things were brought under control and the blaze was extinguished very quickly once the fire brigade got stuck in. After issuing a few final instructions on how to get the chimpanzee down from the fire ladder, Gene turned to Sam.

"Come on, then; I think we've done enough for one evening. Give you a lift home?"

He bent over to take off his huge shoes just as Sam sidled up to him and Gene willed himself not to look at the green length of his legs.

"That would be great. But actually, Gene, I've got a different favour to ask you." He planted a hand on Gene's shoulder as he straightened up and they began a slow trek towards where the Cortina was parked in a neighbouring field.

"Could I borrow that buttonhole to wear at Ray's wedding?"

Gene snorted. "You bloody clown!"

Their laughter barely drew a glance as they made their way back across the dark grass to the car.

 

***

 

_4\. Treading water_

 

"Here."

Judging that Sam's need was greater than his, Gene handed him the old blanket from the boot of the Cortina; partly to stop Sam shivering and partly to cover his modesty – or what was left of it.

"You really are a daft bastard, Tyler."

Sam glowered at him, undermined somewhat by his violent shivering and the streaks of mascara gracing his face.

"It was worth it, though. We got him," he managed to say, through the chattering of his teeth.

"And he nearly got you!" Gene yelled. He glared at Sam, then spun on his heel and paced along the towpath, a gesture which would have been a lot more dramatic without the wet squelching noises made by his sodden shoes.

Sam stood where he was by the canal, water dripping from him and forming dark puddles on the ground. Police officers milled around, three of them struggling to subdue Vince Croker as they wrestled him, soggy and slippery, into a police car.

It had been one of those slow-motion moments, when you could see what was going to happen, but were helpless to prevent it: Croker, his hands around Sam's neck, losing his footing just as Gene lunged for him. All it had taken was a loose brick and the three of them had tumbled, a mass of flailing limbs, into the canal.

And all because Sam had talked him into setting a trap. Which, in itself, was not a bad idea. It was the part that involved Sam dressing as a trannie – and a right tart at that – that Gene had objected to.

He paused in his pacing, taking in Sam's bedraggled form. He'd lost his wig in the fracas, and his high-heels – Gene could see a single shoe lying on its side at the edge of the path. He looked back at Sam, taking in his bare feet, and the scrape along his calf where his fishnets were torn…

Gene forced himself to look away.

"Come on," he said suddenly. "We both need to get home and get warmed up."

Sam's shoulders slumped further. "My hot water's on the blink."

Gene let out a long breath, feeling suddenly tired. "Back to mine, then, Gladys."

***

Gene drove them back to his house, Sam unusually meek and quiet in the passenger seat. It was bloody unsettling.

Once inside, Gene put the kettle on and sent Sam, unresisting, upstairs to run a hot bath. Gene stripped down to his underwear in the kitchen, bundled his wet clothes into the washing machine, and climbed the stairs slowly, balancing the two steaming mugs of tea carefully as he went.

He made a detour to his bedroom to don dressing gown and slippers – letting Tyler have the first bath was all very well, but he didn't want to catch his death of cold while he waited – and then picked up the teas and pushed the bathroom door open with one foot.

He was greeted by the sight of Sam, naked from the waist up, one foot propped on the loo seat, skirt hitched up to his hips as he stripped off his stockings. If Sam _wearing_ stockings had been disturbing, then seeing him taking them off was a whole new level of obscenity, and for a moment Gene was frozen to the spot, his brain entirely short-circuited.

Sam dropped the wet stockings on the floor and turned to Gene, catching the direction of his gaze.

"Well, those green tights were murder so I thought I'd try stockings this time," he explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

Gene swallowed.

"Erm." He cleared his throat and proffered a mug. "Here you go."

Sam's face brightened and he reached for the mug with a grateful smile.

"Cheers." He took a sip. "Jesus!"

"I might have put a drop of whisky in there."

"More like the whole bottle!" Sam grimaced but took another, larger, swig before setting the mug aside and turning off the taps.

"Right. Well. I'll, er, get you a towel."

"Hang on – can you give me a hand?" Sam turned, pulling at the waistband of the skirt. "I think the zip is jammed."

For a moment, Gene closed his eyes. Never much of a believer in God, he couldn't help wondering if this was some sort of divine retribution, maybe as payback for him impersonating a priest a couple of weeks ago, or maybe just for being a great big fool who'd fallen for his own D.I.

When he opened his eyes, Sam was twisting about, trying to get a grip on the tab of the zipper, the short skirt riding higher over his thighs. _Christ on a bike._

Gene took a deep breath. He needed to do this quickly and leave, because the way things were going Little Gene would be putting in an appearance any time now, and while Gene's dressing gown was perfectly decent under normal circumstances, he didn't fancy its chances against a raging stiffy.

He put his mug down out of the way. "Hold still, you idiot, you're making it worse." Gene grabbed the waistband at either side of the zip and yanked, hard. The zipper gave way with a satisfying ripping noise and Gene stepped back quickly.

"Right. There you go."

"Thanks." Sam began to shimmy out of it, pulling the skirt down over his hips, and before turning to leave, Gene caught a flash of a suspender belt and some entirely unremarkable men's briefs. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Oh, what time's Ray's stag do start?" Sam called after him.

"In about an hour." Gene glanced round despite himself to see Sam's back as he bent over, disentangling his feet from the skirt. _Oh, bloody hell – don't stare at his arse._

Gene quickly turned to face the sink. "But it won't matter if we're a bit late," he added, then laughed, trying to lighten the mood. "Shame we ended up in the canal: you could have gone as the stripper, in that outfit."

"I think Ray would have been somewhat disappointed," Sam said with a laugh, and Gene realised he could dimly see him in the steam-misted mirror peeling off his remaining underwear. _Jesus._

There was a bit of splashing as Sam lowered himself in the bath. "Have you really hired a stripper?"

"The lads from the office have. What did you think that whip-round was for?"

"I don't know: I thought we were getting him some sort of present."

"Well, we are."

"I meant a wedding present."

"That's up to you, Gladys. I take it you are going to the wedding, then?" Feeling on safer ground with this conversation, Gene paused to pick up his mug and drink some of his tea, making sure he kept his eyes carefully averted from the bath.

"Yeah. Of course. I meant to ask: are you taking anyone? To Ray's wedding, I mean, not the stag party, obviously."

"What, do you mean like a woman?"

"Well, yeah. Or anyone."

"No." Gene gave a huff of laughter. "Could take you, if you pop a decent frock on."

"Ha-bloody-ha. You _can_ take me, as it happens."

"Take you?"

"To the wedding - you could give me a lift. Unless there's someone else...?"

"Someone...? No." Gene took another mouthful of tea.

"Okay, then."

"Right."

Gene edged towards the door, but Sam spoke again.

"You don't think he's doing the right thing, do you?"

Gene gave a heavy sigh. "I don't know. I don't know if he really wants 'til death us do part, or if he's just thinking with his John Thomas."

"I guess sometimes you have to take the risk in order to find out."

Gene peered over his shoulder at Sam, his vision blurred by the rising steam. "Always knew you were a big soppy romantic girl at heart, Tyler." He'd meant it as a joke but it came out harsher than he intended.

"If you take away the feelings, Gene, then what's left?" Sam sounded annoyed and ever so slightly disappointed. "Is it all just about sex?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What _is_ it about then?"

Gene was silent for a moment, weighing his words.

"I don't know."

Sam made an impatient noise but Gene continued.

"Just...Feeling comfortable with someone, I suppose. Like you can relax and be yourself. Not having to pretend to be someone else all the bloody time. Not walking on eggshells or always being in the ruddy doghouse..."

He trailed off, realising that his voice was rising in volume and that he'd said more than he intended. He added in a quieter tone: "That's not too much to ask for, is it?"

Sam had turned to look at him, his expression unreadable through the fine mist. "No," he said. "That's not too much to ask for at all."

Gene held his gaze in silence for a moment, then put his mug down and stepped towards the door.

"I'll get you that towel."

 

***

 

_5\. Tying the Knot._

 

"Well, I wasn't expecting the day to turn out like _that_." Sam dabbed gently at his nose with a large red spotted hanky. Fortunately, the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"No," Gene agreed, nudging an overturned flower arrangement with his foot. "Bit of a bolt from the blue, that."

The harassed-looking registrar shooed them out of the way, scowling in their direction as he up-righted the flowers. As if to imply this was all _their_ fault.

Technically speaking, Gene conceded, it was: after all, Sam had been the one who had arrested the bride.

"Please gentlemen," the registrar gestured towards the door. "I've got another party in here in fifteen minutes."

Gene took one last look around – a bit of a mess, but honestly, it could have been much worse considering all the kerfuffle – before they walked down the short aisle towards the exit, stepping over a discarded hat as they went.

***

"I mean, I've been to weddings where the bride has been married before, but never to one where she was in fact _still_ married – to both previous husbands. Bit greedy, that, if you ask me," Gene said, handing Sam a glass of scotch.

Sam, making himself comfortable on Gene's sofa, shook his head, mystified. "Why would anyone do that?"

Gene sat down next to him. "Yeah, you'd think one husband would be enough. She must be a nutter."

"If you mean she has serious psychological problems and requires professional help, then I'm with you there."

There was silence for a moment as they both drank, and Gene refilled their glasses.

"Do you think Ray's okay?"

Gene shrugged. "Probably not. But he'll feel better once Chris has taken him to the pub and got a few stiff drinks into him."

"Do you think we should've joined them?"

"Nah. Don't suppose he wants to see you right now."

"Me? I can understand him being angry – and I'll even forgive him for the bloody nose – but it's hardly _my_ fault that his bride-to-be turned out to be a bigamist."

"I know. But the mood he's in, he'll happily shoot the messenger. And I do mean literally."

Sam gave a sigh. "I suppose this all adds weight to your 'don't get married' argument, does it?"

"Why?" Gene shot him a sideways glance. "You thinking about it yourself? Finally decided to let Cartwright have her wicked way with you?"

"No!" Sam snapped. "You can leave Annie out of it, all right, we're just friends."

"Oh." _Good._ Gene took another hefty swig, feeling the scotch burn its way down. He summoned his best casual tone. "Someone else you've got your eye on, then?"

"You could say that."

_Bugger. Bugger. Bugger._

"Oh? Who is she?"

"_He_, actually."

Gene coughed violently, the scotch catching the back of his throat.

Sam rolled his eyes and turned to regard him, his lips pressed together in irritation.

"Well, he's rude, loud, some might say obnoxious; overbearing, egotistical, and sometimes – such as now - a bit thick."

Gene swallowed, his voice sounding hoarse. "D'you mean me?"

"No – it's Chris. Yes, of course it's you, you great ignoramus! For God's sake, what do I have to do?"

"Tyler-"

"I've been dropping hints the size of a whale - I stripped naked in front of you, for crying out loud - and you still haven't twigged!"

"Gladys-"

"I'm starting to think I'll die of old age before you bloody well make a move, and I _know_ you're interested, so make your ruddy mind up!"

"Sam!"

Sam paused to take a deep breath, and Gene seized his chance.

"Shut up, you daft bugger."

Then he seized Sam.

Because although it was scary and strange and probably a really, _really_ bad idea, it was, Gene finally decided, his lips firmly pressed to Sam's, worth taking any amount of risk for.

After a moment, they pulled slowly apart, Gene noting with some satisfaction that Sam looked a little dazed.

"So," Sam said, unconsciously licking his lips, "does this mean you are revising your opinion about relationships?"

"Didn't have to. I said I didn't want another _wife_, not that I didn't want _you_."

Sam's brow furrowed. "So what does that make me?"

"What, apart from a huge picky-pain in the arse?"

"Yes, apart from that."

Gene paused for effect. "My best man."

A slow, delighted grin spread across Sam's face – the grin that Gene truly loved to see; the one that spoke of trust and faith and sheer joy in the here and now, and right now was all for _him_ – and Gene drank it in, savouring the moment, before he leaned forward and closed the distance that remained between them.

***  
END  
*** 


End file.
